


Well Versed in Wanting

by hollybennett123



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 23:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123
Summary: Aziraphale has never met anyone else who can so eloquently convey the embodiment of a nonchalant shrug with a quirk of their mouth alone, but Crowley succeeds in doing just that before getting up and sauntering off into the sitting room. Goodness, the sway of his hips when he walks is sounnecessary. A distraction that frankly shouldn’t be allowed.He lasts thirty-seven minutes before rescheduling their ‘evening’ appointment to ‘imminent’ and informing Crowley there’s been a change of plan.(or: Crowley stumbles upon Aziraphale’s private book collection, and revelations are had of the non-biblical kind)





	Well Versed in Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> Part way through watching Good Omens my brain whispered Crowley/Aziraphale service top/powerbottom dynamics and since that moment my life has not known peace. However, it later dawned on me part way through writing this that to me they are in fact _both_ bottoms, destined for a lifetime of cheerfully switching to indulge the other. In conclusion: Crowley is a part time service top, part time bottom, and just a really fucking valid wiggly snake man who should be treated with the utmost tenderness and praise.
> 
> Thank you to Ark for the encouragement when I was flailing and drowning in scribbled notes for this story and unsure if I could actually create anything out of them ♥

When Aziraphale steps into his study that evening with the sole intention of procuring some good bedtime reading, the last thing he expects to find is Crowley, lounging on Aziraphale’s beloved Chesterfield with a sizeable collection of books strewn about his person. Well, perhaps not the _last_ thing: Crowley does live right here in this very place, of course, and is free to venture around it as he pleases.

The sight, whilst unexpected, is not half so shocking as the cold-water feeling of dread Aziraphale feels when he realises exactly _which_ books Crowley has selected for himself. He stops short, almost-but-not-quite sloshing his mug of cocoa onto the carpet in his haste, looking at Crowley in wide-eyed horror.

“You _—_ you don’t _read.”_

“I can read,” says Crowley, distracted.

On closer inspection, ‘reading’ is a rather loose term given the way he’s flipping randomly back and forth between pages, turning the book this way and that and eyeing it with interest. That he can even see the text through his sunglasses is a minor miracle in itself, but since miracles are in no short supply between the pair of them Aziraphale supposes that’s one of the less surprising things about this unexpected turn of events.

“I know you _can_ read,” Aziraphale says, sounding dreadfully petulant but not inclined to do anything about it. “I’m saying you don’t. You don’t, but you are, you’re reading my books! My very, very private books.”

Oh, this is just tremendous: nearly every one of his innermost wants and desires laid out in stories and tomes he’s collected through the ages. Row upon row of lewd text that combined, read and inferred from might as well be replaced with a numbered list of Aziraphale’s most called-upon fantasies, kinks and erotic leanings. Some of them have _pictures_. He can feel his cheeks burning and it only annoys him more.

Crowley finally looks at him properly, setting the book down carefully on his knee. Opens his mouth and closes it again.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t come in here, angel,” he says at last, his voice gentle. “If you had, I wouldn’t have, you know that.”

His expression softens further, and he gives Aziraphale an imploring sort of look that makes it terribly difficult to remain cross with him. Aziraphale frowns, trying to decide whether or not he fancies having a good sulk about the whole thing anyway.

“Oh, you’re right of course,” Aziraphale sighs, turning his irritation back on himself. How foolish of him not to lock his things away. “I didn’t. It’s just those books are very, ah _—_ revealing, you could say. About certain things one might prefer to keep to oneself.” He sets his mug down on the desk and comes to sit at the other end of the sofa, sinking down into the soft leather and resting his chin in his hands. If only he could keep sinking until he’s disappeared entirely, and they could forget the whole thing. He _could_ do that, actually. Best not. “Whatever made you come in here in the first place?”

Crowley crosses one absurdly long leg over the other, kicking lazily back and forth. Casual, if you don’t know him. Fidgety, if you do.

“Idle curiosity?” Crowley says, at least having the decency to sound rather sheepish about it. “Bit bored of a Tuesday evening and wanted to know if any of these old books of yours have any saucy bits in them?” He glances down at the book spread atop his lap. “Some of these, though,” he says, turning to the next page and raising his eyebrows at what he finds. “Some of them _—_ they’re all saucy bits, aren’t they? Sauce galore, this one is. Absolutely dripping in it.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale says, coughing delicately. “That’s rather the point, as I’m sure by now you’ve established.”

Crowley makes a non-committal sound that may or may not be agreement.

“Nothing in there can be that surprising, surely?” Aziraphale says after a beat of silence. “A demon who’s spent as much time on earth as you have must surely have tried one or two things.”

Oh, this is a terribly dangerous conversation: makes him want things he can’t have, the longing inside him swelling like a tide and threatening to spill over. He’s too curious to stop himself.

“Not _—_ ” Crowley begins and then stops himself, mouth thinning as he thinks it over. “Not so much tried personally.”

It’s not the answer Aziraphale was expecting, and it leaves him quite taken aback. He’d always assumed otherwise, even if Crowley is in many ways a six-thousand-year-old mystery.

“You’ve been to orgies!” Aziraphale says. “You’ve mentioned it, I’m sure you have. Big ones, lots of famous people at some of them if I recall.”

“I never actually _went to one_ went to one,” Crowley says offhandedly. “I’d turn up, try a few of the nibbles. Plant a few seeds of temptation _—_ adultery, petty theft and suchlike _—_ then bugger off home before anything much exciting happens, that was more my style. Anyway, they’re _boring_. No alcohol, usually. And the music, well. The less said the better, if you ask me.”

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale says sympathetically, though he’ll have to take Crowley’s word for it.

“Anyway,” Crowley says, and there’s something terribly raw and honest in it that makes Aziraphale sit up a bit straighter and look at him properly. “Humans are just so _—_ _human_ , aren’t they?” Aziraphale nods; such fragile, mortal things. So very appealing, some of them, but not exactly ideal. “I always thought,” Crowley continues, “if it was going to happen it’d have to be with someone a bit more _—_ like me. Someone specific I had in mind. Y’know?”

And heavens above, Aziraphale _does_ know; couldn’t possibly not, with the terribly soft way in which Crowley confesses, his gaze now so plainly fixed on Aziraphale despite the dark glasses.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, little more than a breath. “Oh, _Crowley_. How long?”

A whole year they’ve lived here and it never once occurred to him that Crowley’s feelings for him could be a changeable, moving thing. That what he hadn’t desired before, he might want now. A week, a month _—_

“Two thousand years ago,” Crowley begins, carefully nonchalant and avoiding anything so devastating as eye contact. “We bumped into one another in Rome.”

 _Two thousand years_ , Aziraphale thinks in stunned silence, his mind playing those same words over and over on a loop like a needle sticking in a well-loved record. Good lord; millennia have passed them by and there’s still so much they don’t know about one another. He never knew, never _guessed_.

He has no neat and tidy label for what they have together and nor has he ever wanted one: friends, first and foremost, six thousand years ago and moreso now than ever. They happen to live together, because why not? And share a bed, certainly, and kiss sometimes, because that’s just what they _do_ and it seemed a very natural progression to do so, and never in all the time they’ve known one another have they ever actually dared talk about any of it.

“You started banging on about oysters of all things,” Crowley continues in a distant kind of tone, bringing Aziraphale out of his thoughts. “Said you were going to tempt me with them. I started thinking _—_ well, it’s not important what kind of things I was thinking. Got me wondering what you really got up to in your spare time, at the very least. I thought about some things and _—_ ” he pauses, giving a vague hand gesture, an embellished swirl of his fingers whilst he thinks on how best to phrase it, “ _—_ I never really stopped.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in surprise. He remembers that meeting well; what a wonderful stroke of luck it had been, bumping into Crowley after several years’ absence. The drinks they’d shared had been marvellous. “Yes, that. In my defence, no one informed _me_ that oysters are a well-known delicacy of the aphrodisiac kind until at least a decade later. And I hadn’t the foggiest that the restaurant was a front for a rather risqué sex club, so that was quite the revelation, let me tell you.”

Crowley peers at him over the top of his glasses, giving him a considering look.

“Indulge in a bit of fornication, did you?” he says, his voice soft but his smile devilishly crooked. “Can’t imagine your lot were very happy with that, were they?”

They certainly wouldn’t have been, but Aziraphale always did have a habit of earning their disapproval and there isn’t one of the seven sins he hasn’t made a good go of in one fashion or another. _I do not sully the temple of my celestial body_ , Gabriel had said to him once, as condescending as ever. Aziraphale intends to sully his celestial body with whatever he damn well pleases, thank you very much, often and with enthusiasm.

“I didn’t, as it happens,” Aziraphale says, fussing with a loose thread on the sleeve of his jacket. Picks at it until it comes free. “Not then. Or ever, in truth,” he adds. “Not with anyone else, at least.”

“Anyone else?”

Aziraphale glances away, clearing his throat. “Anyone but, ah, myself, I mean.” Crowley nods in understanding; gives him a look that suggests that this was already a given. “You don’t seem very surprised,” Aziraphale says, a bit put out.

“You?” Crowley exclaims, looking him up and down. “I’d be shocked if you hadn’t been pleasuring yourself left, right and centre. I’ve never met a more self-indulgent, hedonistic creature.” Aziraphale pulls a face at that, though he can’t really argue the point. “I just assumed you’re at it all time when I’m not looking.”

“That,” Aziraphale says firmly, “is _—_ er, a personal matter. Good to know you’ve given it so much thought, though. And I prefer ‘sensualist’, actually; it has rather a nice ring to it, I’ve always thought.” Crowley smiles at him, wistful in a way Aziraphale’s never seen on him before. There’s something hopeful tucked underneath it, not quite hidden. Maybe it’s not meant to be; not anymore. “So in summary: you, for two thousand years give or take, have wanted us to _—_ ?” Aziraphale says, condensing the whole sorry tale into a single tragic sentence.

“Yup,” Crowley says.

“And I, for just as long _—_ if not longer _—_ have wanted the very same, actually.”

Crowley looks at him with an inscrutable expression for quite some time, eventually tipping his head back to look at the ceiling and making a disgruntled, hopelessly frustrated noise in his throat that actually sums up Aziraphale’s thoughts quite nicely.

“We’re both idiots, aren’t we?” Crowley surmises.

“I’m afraid we are, rather,” Aziraphale says with a half-smile. “Each of us as foolish as the other, it would seem.”

He wonders if it’s always been for Crowley just as it’s been for himself: a yearning he’s worn under his skin for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like not to carry it with him. It’s not unbearable, by any means; one could drive oneself quite mad as the centuries stack alongside one another to form millennia if such things are dwelled on. It’s more like a faint itch one can’t quite scratch, or a tickle in one’s throat that vexes but doesn’t hurt. How could it, when they have all this: a shared history and now a future too. They are lucky indeed, Aziraphale thinks. To have more seems almost greedy, but he has always been just that, and unashamedly so.

“I’ll admit I presumed it was something you didn’t want for us when you made no suggestion to the contrary,” Aziraphale muses. Of course, he himself made no attempt to initiate anything either, but that is, as they say, by the bye. “I hadn’t realised sex was ever on the table.”

“On a _table_?” Crowley says teasingly.

“In the _metaphorical sense_ ,” Aziraphale sighs. “Er, one would assume a bed might be a more sensible setting, at least at first.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks: might as well barrel on before he has time to start doubting where this is going. “Anyway. If we’re both on the same page, as it were, there’s no reason why we can’t change things, is there? Make a good go of it. When we feel ready.”

“Tomorrow?” Crowley offers airily, picking at a fingernail.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, a tad too quickly. “We could have sex tomorrow. Absolutely, if you want. Most definitely.”

“Go on,” Crowley drawls in response to Aziraphale’s little outburst, dragging out the consonant. “Say ‘fuck’. I know you can say it, I’ve _heard_ you.”

Goodness, he’s as insufferable as he is attractive. It’s absolutely maddening.

“Perhaps I shall say it,” Aziraphale says primly, getting to his feet and straightening his bowtie. “Tomorrow. When you’re fucking me.”

It’s supposed to catch Crowley off guard and meets its mark perfectly: leaves him laughing, shocked and disbelieving, something heavy and intense in his gaze. But good lord, Aziraphale hadn’t intended for it to ricochet back on himself quite the way it does, a sharp tug of arousal in his belly when he hears himself so casually say _fucking me_ like it’s a thing they _do_ , now imagining it so vividly. What does Crowley imagine, he wonders. How does he see them?

“That’s how you’d want it, would you?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale is fairly certain he’s never seen Crowley blush before, but he’s now remarkably pink in the cheeks. It’s a surprisingly fetching look on him.

“Oh, I want to try it both ways. _All_ of the ways,” Aziraphale says brightly, failing at reining in his enthusiasm and deciding there and then that it’s a lost cause. He throws his energy into pacing around the study instead, Crowley watching him intently. “Lots and lots of things I want to try, assuming of course that you do too. But _—_ yes, going back to the aforementioned, I think that might be very nice, don’t you? I believe I’d enjoy it immensely, if the, ah _—_ well. If the experimentation with fingers is anything to go by.”

Flushing hot himself at having been so candid, he expects some comment in jest or surprised laughter at the very least, but Crowley _—_ whose eyebrows have been rising in increments with every few words spoken _—_ gawps at him like he’s been hit over the head with something, quite stunned.

“Oh dear, I’m getting ahead of myself,” Aziraphale says, hurriedly beginning to tidy away a few of the books just for something to do with his hands. “I’m sorry, dearest, forget I said anything. I didn’t even ask you what it is you want, and you don’t want that at all, do you?”

“No, no. I didn’t say that,” Crowley says, sounding a bit choked. “Didn’t say that at all. Sounds good to me. Have you really?”

He lifts one hand in the air, wiggles his fingers to leave no doubt as to what it is he’s referring to. They’re very attractive fingers. Long. Elegant. _Dexterous-looking_.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, mesmerised. “It’s absolutely splendid, I find. Jolly nice indeed.”

“Well, if it’s jolly nice,” Crowley echoes. “Can hardly not, can we?”

Aziraphale gives a little hum of agreement, picking up the abandoned mug he’d quite forgotten about. What’s left of his drink will surely be lukewarm by now, so he might as well head to the kitchen and get some more on the go.

“Cocoa?” he asks, brandishing his mug vaguely Crowley-wards by way of explanation. He fumbles to adjust his grip when it abruptly increases in both weight and warmth, liquid rising almost to the brim again. “I was asking if you wanted me to make you some,” Aziraphale says, hopelessly fond. “Not asking for a top-up. Oh, you put little marshmallows in it! How whimsical.”

“M’fine,” Crowley shrugs, his gaze sliding over Aziraphale before looking away again. He ignores Aziraphale’s last remark as if the gesture wasn’t his doing at all, the marshmallows a spontaneous act of the universe and nothing more. “None for me, thanks.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, suddenly quite worn out in a way that only an intense sort of a conversation can do to a person. “I’m going to finish this and then get some sleep. Will you join me?”

He finds he’s gotten rather used to sharing a bed in the time they’ve lived together, and whilst sleep isn’t strictly a necessity for them, it’s a wonderfully relaxing pastime all the same. It’s a very big bed, though. Feels awfully lonely when he has no one to share it with.

“Later,” Crowley promises, picking up one of the books sat beside him with just the barest hint of a smirk. “I want to know where this one’s going. Research, obviously.”

Aziraphale peers at the cover and plucks it from his grasp, tutting affectionately. Selects a far more educational albeit equally raunchy alternative, then furnishes him with a couple more just for good measure.

“I have impeccable taste,” Aziraphale assures him, trying his best to hide how flustered he still is by this whole _being honest with one another_ business.

Looking him up and down with a roguish smile, Crowley winks at Aziraphale in a way that makes him feel quite tingly. “So do I.”

Crowley: insufferable, maddeningly attractive and _his_.

*

Their conversation keeps Aziraphale’s mind whirring long after he’s settled in for the night, the copious volumes of sugar consumed alongside it hardly helping matters. He’s still awake when Crowley slips into bed alongside him sometime later, though drowsy enough that on opening his eyes they immediately fall shut again against his will.

“Are you well-read in the art of lovemaking now, dear?” Aziraphale asks him, mumbling into the pillow.

“You know what?” Crowley says matter-of-factly. “I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.”

“Good, good,” Aziraphale sighs, quite content. “I don’t either. Such fun, learning new things.”

Crowley falls silent for long enough that Aziraphale assumes he’s already dozed off.

“Some interesting stuff in those books of yours, isn’t there, angel?”

“Go to _sleep_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, still smiling as he finally drifts off himself.

*

“Must you stare at me like that, dearest?” Aziraphale asks Crowley over breakfast, a lavishly buttered crumpet in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other. “It’s very distracting.”

“M’not staring,” Crowley says, propping his chin up on one hand and making no move to at least pretend otherwise. “No staring happening here. No more than usual.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale replies, in part to convey his doubt but also because his mouthful of breakfast makes it rather difficult to say any more on the matter.

Thinking about it now, Crowley does spend an awful lot of time watching him put things in his mouth. Perhaps Aziraphale should have put two and two together at some point, in the last thousand years or so at the very least.

“I was just wondering about timings,” Crowley says, idly scratching at his jaw.

“What?”

“Timings, for today. What are your plans, exactly? Attend opera at six, have amorous rendezvous at nine, that sort of thing.”

The last part is said in what is clearly intended to be an imitation of Aziraphale’s own voice, but as he gave up protesting Crowley’s woefully poor attempts at mocking him somewhere around the late thirteen-eighties, he elects not to comment on it. Instead he swallows thickly, his mouth dry. Takes a sip of his tea and delicately presses a linen napkin to the corner of his mouth whilst he thinks it over.

“Well, I don’t have anything else planned, but evening feels most suitable, don’t you think?” he muses. “I think that’s when people mostly have sex, anyway. It seems appropriate for the first time at the very least.”

He can’t be certain, but thinks he catches a fleeting glimpse of mild _disappointment_ in Crowley’s expression. Nevertheless, they’ve waited thousands of years, a scarcely fathomable amount of time when one really starts to think about it properly. A few hours should hardly pose an issue.

Aziraphale has never met anyone else who can so eloquently convey the embodiment of a nonchalant shrug with a quirk of their mouth alone, but Crowley succeeds in doing just that before getting up and sauntering off into the sitting room. Goodness, the sway of his hips when he walks is so _unnecessary_. A distraction that frankly shouldn’t be allowed.

Still gazing wistfully after him _—_ thinking, as he often does, about how unfair it is that a person can even move like that _—_ Aziraphale goes to put his half-eaten crumpet back down on his plate and instead unwittingly deposits it directly into his cup of tea. Still, he reasons, looking at the sad state of his breakfast and prodding sullenly at the soggy remnants: only a few hours to go until evening comes around. More than manageable.

He lasts thirty-seven minutes before rescheduling their ‘evening’ appointment to ‘imminent’ and informing Crowley there’s been a change of plan.

*

“Oh, I _do_ love our bed,” Aziraphale sighs happily, smoothing the creases from the quilt and enjoying the sumptuous slide of the plush fabric against his palms.

It’s all creams and golds in the design, being Aziraphale’s turn this week. By next week the bedcovers will be black and silver-edged again, not quite the same in Aziraphale’s eyes but nevertheless lovely for how very Crowley-like they are.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says in the fond and weary tones of someone who’s heard this same sentiment expressed a hundred times over. Folding his arms, he leans against the doorframe in a slouchy, lolling kind of way that suggests he’d have trouble staying upright at all were it not there to assist. “It’s a very nice bed.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, giving it an adoring look and a little pat for good measure. “Ah,” he adds, chuckling to himself. “The curtains. We don’t want to be giving the poor postman an eyeful of goodness-knows-what if he comes calling, now, do we?”

“Oh, you’d love that, angel, don’t lie,” Crowley scoffs, sitting down on the bed and leaning back on his hands. “Caught getting a good seeing to. You seem like the type.”

“Yes, thank you for sharing your theories on things I may or may not enjoy, dear,” Aziraphale grouses as he heads over to the window, neatly avoiding all attempts at denial which would undoubtedly prove fruitless anyway. Crowley’s grin only grows wider. “But we aren’t going to be rude to unexpected visitors, so if you _don’t_ mind.” He closes the curtains with a flourish, casting the room into partial shadow, though the gauzy fabric and clear summer skies beyond mean there’s still plenty of light to see by. “There,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Perfect.”

There’s a stretch of silence. Aziraphale feels infinitely more uncertain of himself now that he has to actually _do_ something, no longer bimbling about finding things to faff with.

“So. How do we start?” Crowley asks as if reading his thoughts. He takes his sunglasses off, setting them aside.

Aziraphale gives a thoughtful hum, followed by his most reassuring of smiles.

“I believe it often starts with a kiss. And, as we’ve done that part many times before, I daresay it should be the easiest thing in the world.”

Crowley holds one hand out, raising an eyebrow in invitation. Aziraphale entwines their fingers and Crowley reels him in to stand between the vee of his thighs; draws Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and brushes his soft and lovely mouth across his knuckles.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale stammers, his heart aflutter at the tenderness of the gesture. How terribly charming Crowley can be when he wants to be. Come to think of it, it’s all the time: a relentless volley of effortless charm he’s forced to bear.

Crowley looks at him with a smile, his serpentine eyes other-wordly in this light. Turning Aziraphale’s hand over, he pushes the edge of his sleeve up just a fraction with the tip of his thumb, baring the tender skin of his wrist. Presses a lingering kiss there, right over his thundering pulse, and Aziraphale goes quite weak at the knees. Nearly starts begging to be fucked right then and there, and they haven’t even _done_ anything yet.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale chides him. “That’s quite enough of your teasing.”

“Oh, I’m just waiting on your instructions, angel,” Crowley says mildly. “Thought you might want to take the lead on this one.”

There’s a very specific sort of swagger he’s prone to layering over his nerves on the rare occasions he feels the need to. Aziraphale sees right through it, of course, but perhaps Crowley knows that and simply does it anyway. It’s oddly endearing, either way.

“Are you, now,” Aziraphale says. “Well. I’m instructing you to sit right there so I might kiss you.”

Usually, he’d have to tilt his chin upward, Crowley being the taller of the two by a smidgen. Like this, Aziraphale has to lean down to claim his mouth, and finds the sensation delightful in its novelty.

It feels in many ways just as it does every other time they’ve kissed: an effervescent, sparkling champagne feeling in his stomach, with an accompanying headrush that leaves him giddy. It’s different, though, too: on all previous occasions it’s been a kiss for its own sake, the start point and end goal and perfectly lovely in and of itself. Now it feels like a first step; the promise of something more.

Sliding his fingers into Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale presses closer and deepens the kiss. Crowley licks into his mouth, fingers digging bruisingly into Aziraphale’s hips. Makes a soft, needy whine of a sound that has Aziraphale’s thoughts stuttering to a halt and leaves his patience in tatters.

Still kissing Crowley and trying his very best to keep any length of time their mouths aren’t touching to a minimum, Aziraphale shrugs out of his waistcoat and tugs off his bowtie, undoing the top button of his shirt too for good measure since everything is suddenly starting to feel rather a bit too hot. He hesitates for a moment before dropping them onto the floor, but this feels more important and there’s something delightfully freeing in being so reckless with his things.

“Can I?” Aziraphale asks softly, one knee on the bed and a hand on Crowley’s chest. He wants to get even closer, as close as he possibly can. Wants to feel the shape of Crowley’s body against his, to see how they _fit_.

Crowley goes easily when Aziraphale presses him down onto the mattress and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to climb atop him.

“You can do anything you want to me,” Crowley says, his voice satisfyingly rough-sounding.

“Good god, don’t say things like that,” Aziraphale breathes. One of these days Crowley will surely be the death of him, or at the very least the cause of an untimely discorporation.

He kisses Crowley keenly, settling his weight onto him more firmly, and finds Crowley is unmistakably, gorgeously hard in his very tight trousers. Aziraphale’s never had that effect on anyone before; it’s perfectly intoxicating.

He grinds down into him experimentally, the resulting jolt of pleasure like electricity thrumming through his body to every extremity. Crowley’s hips jump up against him and Aziraphale does it again, and again, until Crowley growls _Aziraphale_ in a delightfully frustrated tone and rolls them both over to fit himself between Aziraphale’s thighs.

Breathless, Aziraphale tugs him down by the collar into a bruising kiss, working a hand between them to stroke right over the bulge in Crowley’s trousers. He feels Crowley’s cock jump under the press of his palm and moans even louder than Crowley does, the sound swallowed up between the greedy press of their mouths, so aroused he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, breaking their kiss to tug impatiently at the uppermost button of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Can I?”

Crowley looks so divine from this angle, so unbelievably and resplendently _on top of him_ , that Aziraphale finds himself momentarily left speechless. He gives a vigorous nod instead so as not to hold up the proceedings.

Frowning in concentration, Crowley draws his thumb down the column of buttons, Aziraphale’s shirt vanishing as he does so. Well, Aziraphale thinks: that’s certainly one way to do it, and far more efficient than the alternative.

“Take this _off_ ,” Aziraphale says, tugging at Crowley’s clothing in turn and sounding somewhat more demanding than he’d intended.

Apparently, Crowley responds rather well to being bossed about a bit, because he makes no remark nor clever quip and instead sits back on his heels; reflexively begins stripping out of his jacket before remembering he can remove it all with a mere snap of his fingers to leave himself naked from the waist up.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, drawing his palm down Crowley’s chest, completely in awe of him.

Crowley lets out a slow, shaking breath of his own, his hands moving over Aziraphale’s waist, pressing his fingers into the flesh there. Crowley’s all lean, bony angles and Aziraphale is stock and softness, and they fit together just marvellously, as Aziraphale always knew they would.

Pausing, Crowley gives him a searching look, his hand hovering over the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers.

“Can I keep going?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says softly, his heart at a gallop. He’s so hard it _aches_ , his underthings clinging to him where he’s wet and leaking. “You can. You should, actually.”

“All of it?”

“Of course.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face intently as he brushes his thumb down the length of his still-clothed cock. It feels utterly, dangerously divine, a slow tease of sensation that steals his breath away, pleasure singing sweetly in every nerve ending. Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath as the fabric between them vanishes and Crowley’s fingers meet bare skin, tripping lightly over his cock before loosely encircling it.

“ _Ohh_ ,” Aziraphale groans, no longer able to keep quiet.

Crowley kisses his jaw, his throat, the curved shell of his ear; buries his face against Aziraphale’s neck in an overwhelmed sort of way whilst he strokes him and kisses him there too, the scrape of stubble and lush press of his mouth making Aziraphale’s cock throb and thicken further in Crowley’s grasp.

“All right? Can I try something?” Crowley asks.

“Please do,” Aziraphale says, encouraging and more than a bit eager.

Crowley brings their lips together for a moment and then moves lower, kissing his way down Aziraphale’s body in a leisurely, meandering way _—_ _sauntered vaguely downwards_ indeed, Aziraphale thinks wildly, biting down on his lip to quash the terribly inappropriate urge to laugh aloud at the thought of it.

Thousands of times over thousands of years he’s imagined Crowley’s mouth on his cock, and never once did the idea of it come close to the slick, heat-soaked reality. Crowley is tentative at first, understandably so, but it nevertheless feels remarkable.

“Oh, you are a _marvel_ , aren’t you?” Aziraphale murmurs, carding his fingertips through Crowley’s hair. “Goodness, Crowley, that feels wonderful.” The praise has a pleasingly inspiring effect and Crowley sucks at him more boldly, taking him deeper and deeper still. “ _Careful_ , dearest,” Aziraphale admonishes when Crowley is somewhat over-ambitious. “You mustn’t push yourself.”

Crowley gives a murmur of acknowledgment, the vibrations playing over Aziraphale’s cock in a flutter of sensation that makes him shiver from head to toe. Taking his time over it, Crowley keeps going, eventually pulling away with one final, slow suck so exquisite it makes Aziraphale’s toes curl. Breathing hard, Crowley wipes the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand and presses his cheek to Aziraphale’s thigh, his breath ghosting across his skin in warm gusts.

It’s most unfair, Aziraphale decides, that he is naked and Crowley is not.

“Take your trousers off,” Aziraphale says. “The proper way, if you don’t mind,” he adds, before Crowley can vanish them too and spoil the opportunity for a tantalising show.

Crowley gives him a mildly disgruntled look because now he must actually get off the bed and expend far more effort than is strictly necessary, but he does so regardless; peels them from his body in a slightly awkward yet devastatingly sensual way that’s far more interesting to observe than an instantaneous vanishing.

Aziraphale pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches him brazenly. Feels hungry at the sight of him.

Crowley is beautiful, all of him, his cock especially so: perfectly proportioned and magnificently hard. For a moment Aziraphale imagines vividly what it might feel like inside him and feels as though he could actually swoon with how badly he wants it.

“Happy?” Crowley asks, climbing back onto the bed and between the bracket of Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Immensely. Oh, wait,” Aziraphale says as Crowley eases them both down into the soft, cloudy duvet. “Should I be lying down in an _alluring_ sort of way? How does one actually arrange oneself to look most alluring? I suppose it’s the sort of thing one learns along the way, but _—_ ”

“What?” Crowley interrupts, looking amused and baffled in equal measure. “You don’t need to be alluring. No, nope, that came out wrong. What I meant to say is _—_ you already are. The most alluring, I’d say, if anyone asked _._ ”

Aziraphale blinks up at him in surprise; how wonderful that Crowley thinks so.

“Really?” Aziraphale says brightly, tremendously relieved and more than a bit flustered. “Oh, good.”

It takes only a momentary bit of magic to acquire a tube of lubricant, which Aziraphale promptly hands over. Crowley accepts it with a quirk of his brow, uncapping it, staring at it and then doing absolutely nothing at all.

“Do I just _—_ ?”

“Start with one, then work your way up,” Aziraphale says. “I’m quite well-practiced at this, so you needn’t be overly cautious about it.”

His instructions are followed to the letter, and one finger is swiftly replaced with two at Aziraphale’s request. It’s so easy to relax when Crowley treats him so considerately and looks at him with such affection.

Then and now, Crowley always was a force to be reckoned with: his hands, once ethereal, shaped stars and moved galaxies. Now his fingers are tucked so sweetly inside Aziraphale, this little earthly body of his, and it’s so remarkable a concept that Aziraphale forgets how to breathe for a moment; merely gazes up at him, wonderstruck.

And then Crowley _moves_ , finding some new surge of confidence that Aziraphale appreciates very much indeed. He knows his face must be an open book of feeling, and Crowley reads him so well; angles his fingers just-so, carefully searching and stroking and letting Aziraphale’s reactions guide him as to what works best.

“You know, technically, you’ve been inside me before,” Aziraphale says, quite breathless.

Crowley’s cock twitches, dripping onto the bedding, and Aziraphale feels a delicious tremor of satisfaction somewhere deep inside himself at the sight of it.

“Do you have to be so distracting?” Crowley protests. “I’m trying to make it good for you and you’re saying things like that, distracting me?”

“You’re making it very good for me,” Aziraphale assures him as Crowley tucks a third finger alongside the others and begins to fuck him in earnest. “You’re very _—_ ah _—_ very good indeed, oh _goodness_ , keep doing that, Crowley, I’m begging you.”

“Besides,” Crowley says tightly, the push-pull motion of his fingers combined with the intensity of his gaze enough to make Aziraphale feel as if he might imminently fly apart into a million pleasure-struck pieces. “That means you’ve been inside me, if we’re being technical about it.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, more a gasp than anything else, shifting his hips to take Crowley’s fingers even deeper. “Enormously good fun it was, too.” And it was, despite the dire circumstances in which they switched bodies. A delight and a privilege. “I’m quite ready for you,” Aziraphale says, unable to wait a moment longer. “Please.”

Crowley looks a bit dazed as he withdraws his fingers, and it’s only once he braces his weight on his hands above him that Aziraphale realises how badly Crowley is shaking.

“I have you,” Aziraphale soothes, cupping Crowley’s face in his palms and looking him in the eye. “Oh, darling. You needn’t be nervous.”

“I’m not,” Crowley says, a trembling thing in Aziraphale’s hands. It’s a lie if ever Aziraphale did hear one, but he nods regardless, accepts it as truth.

Crowley slides inside in increments and waits, the air perfectly still around them. He’s so _gentle_ with him; of course he is, this sweet, wonderful man. He begins to move in small thrusts, achingly slow and not yet halfway inside, working Aziraphale open with care.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and thinks of _two thousand years_. Thinks of _we can go off together_. Crowley, who gives and gives and gives and who wants Aziraphale’s happiness but can’t accept his gratitude for even the smallest gestures. The bravest demon or angel or person Aziraphale has ever known, who asked Aziraphale time and time again to stay by his side even when Aziraphale had stupidly, foolishly refused him before.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, his voice breaking apart. It’s a dawning realisation and something he’s known for thousands of years, all hitting him at once in one overwhelming wave of emotion. “You’re too _good_ to me, Crowley.” A complicated expression flashes across Crowley’s face as he opens his mouth to deny it. “Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t you _dare_ say otherwise, I won’t hear a word of it,” and he drags Crowley down into a kiss to ensure his silence on the matter.

“You have _—_ have to tell me if it’s all right,” Crowley says, when Aziraphale feels he’s made his point sufficiently and allows him to come up for air. “Tell me how to make it good for you.”

“It’s so good,” Aziraphale assures him, his breath catching as Crowley slides deeper. “Darling, I’ve never felt anything like it. You?”

“Do I look like someone who’s not enjoying themselves?” Crowley says, amused and incredulous.

Aziraphale smiles, brushing Crowley’s hair from his brow where it’s sweat-damp and ever so soft. There’s so much _heat_ between them.

“You look beautiful,” Aziraphale says, quite honestly.

“Shut up,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes, the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth.

“I shan’t, actually,” Aziraphale says, canting his hips up to meet him. “What do I have to say to really make you put your back into it?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Crowley groans, driving forth and bottoming out entirely. His wings unfurl with a flutter, black feathers brushing sleekly over Aziraphale’s thighs and hips in the most exquisite way before knocking the antique bedside lamps to the floor in a riotous clatter of noise. “Sorry, sorry,” Crowley gasps, hurriedly vanishing them in a ripple of displaced air. “Lost control for a second there, won’t happen again.”

Aziraphale laughs, still floored by the shock of pleasure he’d felt as Crowley filled him so abruptly; right on the edge of too much and all the more wonderful for it. He strokes the back of Crowley’s neck in a gesture that’s meant to be soothing, but when his fingernails scrape bluntly over the fine hair at his nape Crowley gives a full-bodied shudder, working his hips harder.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, the words tumbling out unbidden.

It’s all the encouragement Crowley needs to fuck him in earnest, clumsy in the newness of it and utterly, unequivocally perfect. On a particularly hard thrust the whole bed creaks beneath them, the wood shifting and joining the chorus of groans. Aziraphale has to throw one hand behind himself to brace against the headboard lest he be fucked right into it, laughing aloud at the sheer joy of it.

Crowley is _exquisite_. The way he looks, the way he sounds. The weight of him settled in the cradle of Aziraphale’s hips and the splendid drag of his cock driving him to distraction.

“Oh, you were _made_ for this weren’t you?” Aziraphale says, indulgent as you please. He has his suspicions; thinks he knows what Crowley wants to hear. In an enormous stroke of good luck, it’s exactly what Aziraphale wants to say too, so he does so boldly. “Made for fucking like this. For giving me pleasure.”

Crowley looks down at him, awestruck, and proceeds to kiss him soundly.

Aziraphale strokes his fingers over Crowley’s hips, his buttocks, gripping encouragingly and helping set the pace. Crowley simply lets him, and it’s so gloriously indulgent and filthy the way he allows Aziraphale to take his pleasure, to use him like this, the greedy flex of Aziraphale’s fingers guiding him home.

Keen to explore, Aziraphale lets his hands wander further, tracing the undulations of Crowley’s ribs and making him shiver. He draws his fingers over one nipple and then the other, a very interesting experiment indeed that takes Crowley from breathless to outright panting.

“If you don’t want me to come inside you,” Crowley says with considerable urgency, “you should probably tell me now.”

“Wait,” Aziraphale gasps, not far off himself and all the closer for Crowley’s words. “Oh, I _do_ , but I _want_ _—_ ” he says, leaving the thought unfinished but nevertheless accurate.

Encouraging Crowley to pull out only for a moment, Aziraphale turns over onto his stomach. Behind him, Crowley strokes reverent hands over Aziraphale’s waist and hips with a frantic sort of sound; pushes back inside him with an eagerness that _unmoors_ him, has him scrabbling at the sheets for purchase.

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale moans as Crowley fucks him with ever-increasing insistence, the dual stimulation of Crowley above him and the bed beneath sending him shuddering into an orgasm that leaves him quite stunned.

Crowley barely lasts, after that; manages only a few thrusts into Aziraphale’s languorous, pleasure-lax body before he comes inside him, panting hard against Aziraphale’s ear.

After, when Aziraphale stretches out on his back, Crowley curls up over him unexpectedly, resting his head on his chest in a way Aziraphale decides not to remark on now or ever just in case Crowley stops doing it.

“Awfully messy business, sex,” Aziraphale says at last, warm and content and really rather sticky. “Don’t you think?”

“Mm. Alright though, isn’t it? Pretty decent,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh.

It feels wonderfully decadent, lying in bed together, blissful with post-orgasm satisfaction. Aziraphale could gladly stay here forever.

The minutes tick by and Crowley eventually props himself up on one elbow, idly drawing swirling patters over Aziraphale’s skin with the tips of his fingers and looking at him intently as he continues his lazy exploration. Works his way down over Aziraphale's stomach and hipbones to drag teasingly over his inner thighs.

Reaching down to meet him, Aziraphale nudges his fingers higher, encouraging Crowley to slot them inside him and sighing with satisfaction as he’s so satisfyingly stuffed full once more.

“You’re very _wet_ ,” Crowley says gruffly, as if this is in any way a surprise and as though he isn’t making Aziraphale quite delirious in saying so.

“You’re very much to blame for that,” Aziraphale reminds him. “Oh, Crowley, _please_.”

“Have I unleashed a monster?” Crowley says with a sharp-edged smile. He crooks his fingers and rubs up inside Aziraphale with such accuracy that Aziraphale shivers all over, his knees shaking and his own fingers curling into the sheets. “Look at you. Insatiable.”

“Well then, you’ll have to see to me often, won’t you?” Aziraphale says, encouraging Crowley back between his thighs. He feels between them to stroke Crowley’s rapidly hardening cock a few times before readily guiding him back inside once again.

As Crowley begins to fuck him in lazy, luxurious strokes, Aziraphale lets his fingers trail down Crowley's spine to tease enticingly over his hole. Crowley shudders in response, a ripple of pleasure washing over him plainly, the muscles of his back flexing beneath the palm of Aziraphale’s other hand.

“I intend to make just as much of a mess of you, you know. If you want it,” Aziraphale says nonchalantly. Crowley bites back a groan, hips stuttering. “ _When_ you want it,” Aziraphale corrects, self-satisfied.

“Ambitious,” Crowley says. “You spoiled, greedy thing.”

Aziraphale _is_ spoiled, but that’s all Crowley’s fault as well, really. He thinks about saying as much, but then Crowley hooks his hands beneath Aziraphale’s knees, holding his legs wider apart so he can fuck into him even deeper than before. Aziraphale sees stars, but Heaven has nothing on this; it doesn’t come _close_.

Guiding Crowley over onto his back, Aziraphale climbs on top just to see what all the fuss is about when it comes to this _riding_ business. He sinks down onto him slowly, rocks his hips experimentally, finding that it feels different but equally glorious from this alternate perspective.

Giddy, he takes each of Crowley’s hands in his own, sliding their fingers together. Uses them for leverage as they work out how best to move together.

“We could go for a drive tomorrow,” Aziraphale suggests, apropos of nothing.

“You don’t like my driving,” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes. “Oh,” he says, inferring Aziraphale’s intentions far quicker than Aziraphale had hoped. “Oh, no, we are _not_ having sex in the Bentley. There isn’t even any _room_.”

“Or perhaps _—_ ”

“Or on the Bentley. Or anywhere near it, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale musters his most beseeching expression, all wide-eyed and terribly sad-looking. Crowley makes an exasperated noise, tightening his grip on Aziraphale’s waist.

“Once,” he groans, hips snapping up to meet him. “I’m fucking you _once_ in the Bentley then never again. But it’s your job to miracle away any stains, and you owe me one for this, angel.”

Smiling, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s face between his hands, looking down at him with open adoration. He gives and he gives and he gives and Aziraphale is so, so greedy for it. Always has been.

I owe you the _world_ , he thinks. Vows to give him as much, one day at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Got a bit uhhhhhhh emotional towards the end there lads. ANYWAY I’ve been more than a bit fond of both David Tennant and Michael Sheen since I first watched Casanova way back in 2005 and Wilde at around the same time and now that I can finally pour my lustful urges into self-indulgent fanfiction I'm absolutely delighted about it :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Well Versed in Wanting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880158) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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